


Moonpath

by Shakespeares_Girl



Series: Moonpath Universe [1]
Category: Adam Lambert - Fandom, American Idol RPF, Glam Rock RPF, Kris Allen - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam's life changes forever when he takes one step off the Marked Path and into Pack territory.  When the wolves scent his Fae blood, they hunt him down and leave him for dead.</p>
<p>Kris has never questioned the Pack's blood feud with the Fae, until he comes across a wounded and dying unicorn in Pack territory.  Despite it being against Pack rules, he rescues the unicorn and his life changes . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my darling B for the beta work, and for lots and lots of cheerleading and whip-cracking. I couldn't do this without you.
> 
> Also, thanks to my artist, paraka, for the amazing podfic! You can find her podfic here (http://paraka.livejournal.com/289887.html) or here (http://paraka.dreamwidth.org/281515.html)

_The wolf, my children, is not to be trusted. Once upon a time, a young female of our kind was making her way to the Elder House. On her way, she strayed from the Marked Path to gather fruits and flowers to offer at the Elder House. But because she had strayed from the path, one of the Pack caught her scent, and followed her as she went along her way. Only a mile from the safety of the Elder House, the wolf struck and brought down the girl. The Pack smelled the kill, and circled around, howling and crying, and when morning light touched the forest, there was nothing left of her but the silver stains of her blood._  
  
The Pack sent their Alpha to the Elder House under the terms of the Treaty of Seven, but once inside, the Alpha and his most trusted accomplices began the wholesale slaughter of the Elder House attendants and occupants. The Alpha had promised peace, but gave us nothing but bloodshed and heartache. That is why our kind and the wolf no longer abide by the Treaty of Seven, and that, my children, is why the wolf is not to be trusted.  
  
* * *  
  
Adam scents the Pack as soon as he steps off the Marked Path. He tenses, and tries so hard not to let the fear overtake him, but he _is_ afraid, and it's only a matter of seconds before he hears the scent-call of the scout wolves.  
  
He's already stepped back, and even as he hears the call echo through the night, confirmation that the wolves have scented him, Adam is leaping as fast as he can toward safety.  
  
It's not enough. There's a lop-eared wolf sitting in the middle of the Marked Path, cutting off Adam's only escape route. Adam stares at it for a moment, and it bares its teeth, almost casual. Adam makes a startled, shrieking noise and bolts; does the only thing he can think of and runs.  
  
He's already panting, feels foam fleck his lips and go flying as he runs through the trees, blind in the unfamiliar territory, desperate to find safety but unable to pause long enough to orient himself or get his bearings so he can head for a safe house or the Elder House.  
  
He runs for hours, until his lungs ache and his heart pounds so hard he thinks it might burst. He stumbles, realizes he's got nowhere left to run and stops. There's a wall of impenetrable brambles and thorns in front of him and behind him—he turns his head over his shoulder and sure enough, what looks like the entire Pack is pouring out of the forest toward him. They've been herding him here for who knows how long. Adam feels a little stupid for not realizing what was happening before, especially since it's not as though the outcome of this night is really a surprise to him.  As soon as his name was announced for the journey to Elder House, there was little question of this night ending differently.  
  
Adam starts to turn, his hide sweat-slick and shimmering in the moonlight, and as he turns, head lowered in the semblance of defense, the first wolf strikes.  
  
They don't take turns. They're a wolf pack bringing down their prey. He's one Fae against an entire Pack, and any means of defense or attack he has are meant for one-on-one combat. Hooves and horns do nothing to fend off this many wolves. He curses the day he learned to shift into animal form, then curses the fact that this is the night of the full moon, and the wolves are at full strength.

He stops fighting, and lets the wolves tear into him, rip him open and spill his blood across the forest floor.  
  
Once the wolves are satisfied he's not going to move or fight, they lap up the blood, lick into wounds in search of more, rough dog-tongues slicking into his flesh and making him shudder with nausea and not-quite-pain, sharp teeth nipping to widen wounds and make more blood flow. Adam doesn't move, doesn't fight, but he does scream. Teeth sink into his back when the noise goes on for too long, and one wolf bites into the back of his thigh, teeth closing around the muscle, and _rips_ , and that's the last thing Adam remembers for a long time.  
  
* * *  
  
He wakes up alone. The grass and dirt around his body are stained red and silver from his blood. Everything hurts, especially the place on his thigh where the wolf tore into him. He's shivering. It's cold out, the middle of January, and in a few hours, the sun will rise and he'll be even more vulnerable. Sunlight reveals all things for what they are, and doubly so when the Winter Court holds power. As soon as he sees sunlight, he's going to shift back to human form, and as a human, he won't survive the shock and the blood loss, let alone the temperature. He's going to die at sunrise, naked and alone in the middle of Redwood National Forest.  
  
Adam carefully tests his front legs, unwilling to give up without one last effort, his movements careful and slow. He's no match for even a single wolf now, but the wolves have left him for dead, and if he can make it to the Marked Path—he cuts off that thought. His front legs seem willing enough to hold his weight, and he's just about to shift onto them and try standing up when a wolf lunges into the clearing and circles around the edge, near the forest. It growls toward Adam, then toward the forest, looks around and finally comes straight at Adam. Adam can't help the distressed noise he makes as he falls back to the ground, trying to keep his most vulnerable parts protected more out of instinct than anything else.  
  
The wolf stops directly in front of him, and Adam realizes it's the lop-eared wolf who blocked his way back onto the Marked Path. He doesn't look dangerous now, the lop-ear looks kind of silly and cute, truth be told, but Adam knows better than to trust a wolf. Lupine treachery has been drilled into him from a young age, and despite the desperate need for help, he can't give up on his upbringing so quickly. The wolf studies him for a long time, then trots a few paces away and flops down onto the ground, where he's able to keep an eye on the forest and on Adam.  
  
Whatever trick this is, Adam's done waiting to be torn apart. He wants it over, and if provoking the wolf is what gets the job done, then so be it. He slowly shifts back onto his front legs, then hops awkwardly up, resting his weight mostly in front. It's no use. His hindquarters collapse out from under him with even that little pressure. It's his left leg, the one the wolf tore open, he realizes. He can't see what the wolf did, but he can feel the gush of fresh blood, and he can feel the starbursts of pain when he shifts his weight around.  
  
Defeated, Adam lets his body fold up and tumble back to the ground.  
  
* * *  
  
Kris didn't mean to find the unicorn—either time. He'd scented something that was absolutely delicious and sent up the scent-song, but when the unicorn had turned and looked at him, Kris hadn't wanted to rip or kill—not that Kris often wanted those things. He'd wanted to _know_.  
  
The unicorn had run, of course, and Kris had trailed behind it, letting the Pack get between them and falling even farther behind when he heard the labored breath and then afterward, the screams. He hadn't wanted to watch something that gorgeous and perfect and—and _moon-good_ destroyed. So he'd followed behind and lost the trail on purpose once, and then realized he'd have to run all the way home if he didn't want to get caught in Redwood National Forest naked. Again. (Once was enough.)  
  
He'd burst into the clearing and been instantly overwhelmed by the scent of blood, but it wasn't prey. It smelled like—like someone had killed a wolf, and he'd thought maybe the unicorn had, but the unicorn was obviously bleeding, and there was only one bloodscent in the air, and Kris had stopped his frantic search for wolf blood to really look at the unicorn.  
  
Kris has never heard or smelled or seen anything like it. The unicorn lights up every sense Kris has, until he can taste it, feel it in his bones. It's—it's _moonsong_. It seems impossible that a creature so anathema to the Pack could sing Kris' moonsong, but then again, when he tries to think of anyone else singing moonsong to his soul, he can't. Kris is probably going crazy, but it doesn't matter. If this creature sings moonsong to his heart, Kris will protect it, no matter the consequences.  
  
Kris can't help watching as the unicorn tries to stand. It's torturous, so obviously a lost cause, and yet the unicorn tries it anyway. Kris watches the unicorn collapse back to the ground and feels oddly protective of it. His protection isn't really going to matter that much if the Pack returns, but Kris somehow knows it's important anyway. Instinct is always important. Kris was taught that from birth. Always listen to your instincts. He'd done a lot of things citing instinct as the main cause, some good, some bad.  
  
While Kris watches, the unicorn lays its head on its knees and closes its eyes. At first Kris is pretty sure that the unicorn is dying, which sucks, because that means Kris is waking up from the Change naked in the middle of a National Forest again for no good reason. But dying creatures don't usually have the balance to do much more than sprawl helplessly, and the unicorn looks poised, despite its obvious wounds. Kris gets the impression that if it were human, it would be sitting with its knees pulled up to its chest, head buried in its arms.  
  
Shock tingles through Kris, making him feel suddenly seasick. The unicorn is _crying_.  
  
Kris is moving before he realizes that he even wants to, closing the distance to curl up against the unicorn's side and rest his chin on its back. The unicorn tenses, and Kris wonders if that long, sharp horn is about to gore its way through his side, but nothing happens, and gradually the unicorn relaxes.  
  
They stay that way until Kris feels the need to Change rise like the sun. He stands, moves a few feet away, and shifts.  
  
* * *  
  
When the wolf shifts back, Adam's pretty sure all his worst fears are about to be confirmed. The wolf is going to wait until Adam is mid-shift and finish him off when he's most vulnerable. Maybe Adam's been waiting to die, but he hoped he'd be granted at least a little dignity.  
  
His mother's words ring in his ears— _Do not trust the wolf, Adam. Never trust the wolf_.  
  
His own change happens just as the wolf is standing up, human now, stretching out his legs. Adam screams with the agony of shifting wounded, knows his injuries are only going to get worse as a human. He's a little surprised when it ends and he's still alive, face-down in the grass, shaking with pain and cold. He can feel where scabs have ripped away and he's beginning to bleed again. Adam's pretty sure he'd rather be dead than face another second of this humiliation, naked, helpless and totally exposed to a wolf.  
  
“Do it already,” Adam hisses, trying to push himself up enough to see where the wolf is.  
  
“Do . . . ? Sorry, I don't know what you want,” the wolf says, conversational and casual, like they aren't sworn enemies, like he isn't about to rip Adam's throat out.  
  
“ _Do it_ ,” Adam snarls. “Put me out of my god-damned misery.”  
  
“Oh,” the wolf says, sounding like he understands but wishes he didn't. Adam's hopes for a swift end die forever when the wolf adds in a rush, “No! No, I—I'm not—I couldn't just _kill_ you.”  
  
Adam makes a noise that hurts even as it comes out of his throat, and the wolf winces.  
  
“I'm Kris,” the wolf says. “How hurt are you? Can you stand?”  
  
Adam laughs, high and hysterical. “Oh god. I—I can't even pick my head up long enough to look at you and you want me to stand up?” He keeps laughing, unsure what else to do, until the wolf—Kris—reaches down and presses a finger against one of the gashes across Adam's thigh. Adam takes a second to breathe through the pain, reflecting that of all the places Kris could have touched him, he had to choose the place that hurts most.  
  
“Stop that,” Kris orders. “And get up. I'll help you, if you need it. Right now, we need to get you to a hospital.”  
  
Adam would really like to start sobbing, but he can't. “No hospitals,” he grits out, trying to push himself up again. Fuck. Everything hurts. He can't stand up, he _can't_. There's no way, and even if he makes it upright, he can't walk like this. Kris wants the impossible. What a horribly lupine thing to require. Adam tries to keep his breathing even, but just thinking about standing up makes his neck prickle with panic and his heart pound so hard Adam's afraid for the second time in twenty-four hours that it might burst.  
  
“Hey. _Hey_. Unicorn. I don't know your name, dude, but you've got to look at me,” Kris is saying.  
  
“Not a unicorn,” Adam grunts, focusing on that instead of on everything else.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Kris mutters. “I'm going to tell you what to do so you can stand up, okay? You just have to follow my instructions.”  
  
“Okay,” Adam nods. He's beyond arguing Kris' condescending tone at this point.  
  
“I need you to roll onto your side, okay? On three.” Kris counts to three and helps Adam roll. Fire shoots along Adam's body, and he realizes he won't be able to put any weight on his left leg. Someone might as well have cut it off. _Hamstrung . . . hobbled_ , he thinks, then forces himself to stop thinking. Kris helps him sit, then arrange his feet so when he stands, he won't collapse again right away, and then suddenly, Adam is upright, leaning heavily on Kris' steadying hand. “See?” Kris grins. “Told you I'd get you standing.”  
  
Adam doesn't respond, just stands there, naked and caked in blood and dirt and sweat, more vulnerable than he can remember being in his entire life. He'd thought he'd cried out all his tears during the night, when his mind had been filled with thoughts of everyone he'd never see again, all the things he'd never do, but now fresh tears spring up, and he doesn't have the strength to hold them back.  
  
“Okay,” Kris soothes. “Okay, hold on to me. I'm stronger than I look, I can take your weight while we—” Adam leans on Kris, cutting him off, and they start off through the trees. “There's an abandoned ranger station about a mile east,” Kris says. “Last time I checked, there was a van or something we could . . . um. Re-purpose.”  
  
Adam stays silent, concentrating on not falling. The minutes blur, and they reach the station sooner than Adam expects, pulling him out of his imagined eternity of hobbling through trees. He lets himself be wrapped in a NPS blanket Kris salvages from the station, and at some point Kris gets dressed in the ridiculous brown and green of the ranger corps. Kris maneuvers Adam into the van, propped on his right side to keep pressure off the wound on the back of his thigh.  
  
It's not until they're in sight of a city that Adam realizes he's still crying.  
  
* * *  
  
“Turn here,” the unicorn says, voice soft enough that Kris thinks he's imagining it. He's heard the man screaming in pain, but he never thought about what he'd sound like if he spoke quietly. Kris follows the unicorn's directions, turns, and then turns again when instructed, wondering briefly if this is going to end up with the unicorn laughing while Kris takes his turn writhing in agony.  
  
“The house at the end,” the unicorn says, startling Kris into realizing they're at the end of a cul-de-sac. He pulls into the driveway and starts to turn off the car, but the unicorn stops him.  
  
“Keep it running. We need to get it in the garage before the neighbors get suspicious. The code is the same as the house number,” he adds.  
  
Kris glances up at the house—number 4175—then gets out of the car and punches the code into a number pad to the side of the mechanical door. The gears creak a little; the garage door is obviously not used a lot, but it opens and Kris gets in and pulls the jeep forward until he's pretty sure the door can close again behind it. This time no one stops him when he puts the car in park and yanks at one of the wires to make the car shuts down again.  
  
“You know,” Kris says, glancing over at the unicorn, “it might be nice if you told me your name.”  
  
The unicorn just stares, and eventually Kris shrugs. He walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door, lets the unicorn lean on his shoulder as he gets out. There's no way he can put weight on the torn up thigh. Kris is pretty sure he's going to need to call a doctor at some point, but he doesn't know anyone qualified to work on mythological creatures who wouldn't also rather let the unicorn bleed out or die of infection.  
  
“Adam,” the unicorn says as they're moving from the garage to the kitchen.  
  
“What? I'm Kris,” Kris says stupidly, then “oh.” He grins sheepishly at the unicorn. “Sorry. Hi, Adam.” Kris manages to get Adam mostly stable against the kitchen counter, then goes to sweep the house and make sure he's right in thinking no one's been here for at least three months. The house is clear of all life, except some mice in the basement, and an unfortunately creepy collection of roach motels that speak of a former pest problem. He makes it back to Adam and finds him clinging to the counter with white knuckles, bent over so far that he's almost resting on the counter on his stomach. “Okay, the only bedroom on this floor is at the back of the house. Can you make it that far, or do you want to try crashing on the couch in the living room?”  
  
“Bedroom,” Adam gasps. He looks too pale, like someone's bleached his already light skin even further, and Kris wonders briefly if Adam's feeling nauseous. He gets himself positioned for Adam to lean on again, and they slowly make their way down the hall to the bedroom. The other two rooms are a home office with what looks like a miniaturized version of an air traffic control tower, and a completely empty room. Kris is pretty sure one of those two could have been made into a bedroom. Who has guests over and shows them their office anyway?  
  
When they make it to the bedroom, Adam collapses onto the bed. Kris helps him roll onto his belly before he asks, “Hey. You need a doctor. Is there someone I can call? Someone who knows how to help you?”  
  
Adam looks up at him and blinks a few times. Kris is worried he's gone into advanced shock and there's no chance of pulling him out of it when Adam gives a jarring, bitter laugh. “No one will help me,” he whispers, then lays his head on the lumpy old pillow and shuts his eyes.  
  
Kris covers Adam with a blanket in a daze and goes to sit on the uncomfortable couch in the living room. What could be more horrible, Kris wonders, than not having anyone to help you when you're hurt? Kris has never been alone like that. He's always had the Pack, his family, his friends.  
  
He thinks for a long time, then nods and wanders around the house until he finds a cordless phone that looks leftover from the eighties. He stares at it for a minute, then takes a deep breath and dials.  
  
* * *  
  
Katy answers on the third ring. “This had better be good, Kristopher,” she snaps, but Kris can hear the good humor under her caustic tone.  
  
“I need a really big favor,” Kris admits.  
  
“You're in jail, aren't you?” Katy asks.  
  
“No!” Kris laughs. “Not this time, anyway.”  
  
“You know you're the only one with my direct number, don't you?” Katy reminds him. “What else am I supposed to think?”  
  
“Yeah, about that . . .”  
  
“Ah, yes. Your mysterious favor,” Katy snorts.  
  
“I need you to come here and perform illegal surgery,” Kris starts, pausing for breath.  
  
“Kris!”  
  
“On a man the Pack ripped up in the first place—”  
  
“ _Kris!_ ”  
  
“Because he's a unicorn, and—”  
  
The sound Katy makes leaves Kris' eardrum rattling.  
  
“—and he sings my moonsong,” Kris finishes. “And give a guy some warning next time you try to make him go deaf.”  
  
“Kris,” Katy hisses. “Ignoring the fact that even considering this counts as high treason, I have three very good reasons why I can't do this.”  
  
“Three? That's—that's actually low from what I was expecting—”  
  
“Kris, shut up. Reason number one, he's a _unicorn_ ,” she hisses the word. “I have no idea about their physiology or healing capabilities. I'm more likely to kill him than heal him! Second, I'm not a licensed _anything_ , so it's human-illegal for me to do this, too.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Kris sighs. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked.”  
  
“And third, the Pack attacked him, which means it's against Pack law to reverse any damage done. I could be banished, or worse, _confined_.”  
  
“Katy, I get it. You can't, it's fine. I just . . . I don't know anyone else I trust with this,” Kris admits.  
  
The line is silent for so long, Kris thinks she's hung up. But then she says, “Fuck. Address?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The _address_ , Allen, give it to me!”  
  
“Katy—”  
  
“He sings your moonsong, and you're trusting _me_ and only me to fix him. All my instincts are telling me that denying you is going to hurt you worse than breaking up with you did. So give me the goddamned address!” Katy demands.  
  
Kris rattles it off and hesitates a moment before adding, “Katy? Thank you.”  
  
* * *  
  
Adam wakes up to Kris and a blonde woman standing by the side of his bed. He jerks away from them, surprised by their proximity, and especially by the woman. “Who is that?” he grinds out, his voice feeling wrecked. “What have you done?”  
  
“Adam, calm down,” Kris soothes. “You need a doctor. Katy's the only person I trust to keep this a secret.”  
  
Adam eyes Katy, wary and stiff, and so weary. “You're a doctor?”  
  
“Yes. Well, no. I'm in med school. I mostly do stitches at the med center,” Katy admits.  
  
“You want a med student to try to patch me up? You might as well cut off my damn leg,” Adam snarls.  
  
“Adam,” Kris snaps, his voice suddenly iron. He seems more lupine now than even when he took wolf form. “Without her help, you'll die. With her help, maybe you'll actually walk again someday.”  
  
Adam glares at Kris, wants to snarl defiance and refute permission to touch him, but he also knows Kris is right. “Fine,” he nods at last. “Do it.”  
  
A few short minutes later, Adam is on his stomach, clutching at the lumpy pillow and trying not to scream while Katy uses her fingers and a pair of surgical tweezers she's stolen from somewhere to try and repair the tendon damage. It hurts so fucking much, he wants to claw his way out of his skin to escape.  
  
“Katy!” Kris shouts, as Adam shudders and chokes on another scream. “You're hurting him!”  
  
“Kris,” Katy snaps back, “come here and hold this in place and stop being such a baby! And hold _still_ , or he'll be worse off than when I started.” He feels more fingers join Katy's, and Katy mutters, “I can see how it _should_ look, but I can't put it back together . . .”  
  
Everything hazes after that, and Adam's conscious of his own screaming, and of shivering while Katy sews a crawling centipede of stitches up the back of his thigh. At some point, he's flipped onto his back and the gashes on his stomach, chest, and thighs are dealt with. He feels covered in twitching, pulling, piercing needles, threaded with rope and sliding through his skin, invasive and wrong. He wants more than anything to yank himself away from Katy's hands, from Kris' soothing voice and the cool washcloth dabbed over his face, but he can barely find the strength to scream anymore.  
  
Later, Adam clings to Kris as Kris somehow carries Adam in his arms and settles him on the couch. Kris covers him with a blanket, strokes Adam's sweat soaked hair out of his eyes. Adam shudders and tries to stop staring at Kris, at his sad brown eyes and the way his hands move and flex against Adam's skin. Everything about Kris makes Adam ache, an old, familiar pain that creeps up on him at odd and inopportune times. Now it's strong enough Adam fears his soul will break under the strain.  
  
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, to block out Kris and how he makes Adam want. He must succeed, because when he opens his eyes again, he's in a bed, clean sheets and fluffy pillow under him, and it feels so heavenly that Adam ignores the way his chest still aches with the indescribable sadness and lets himself sleep again


	2. Chapter 2

Adam has a vague impression of days passing while he heals. Kris changes his bandages, picks stitches out of the shallower wounds, progressing until only the stitches for the deepest injuries remain. At some point Kris decides Adam should be clothed, because he wakes up in pajama pants and a loose white t-shirt one day. He thinks about whether or not that bothers him and falls asleep before he decides. When he wakes up one day and automatically twists around and sits up to fix the shirt so it's not choking him, he realizes it's the first time he's moved without pain in—he's not sure how long.

Carefully, Adam stands up and sheds the soft cotton t-shirt and sleep pants. Ugly red scars and dark scabs wind around his body, all with that too-smooth look of flesh that repaired itself wrong. He curls his lip, then hobbles over to the closet door, feeling triumphant and defeated when he finds a mirror inside. He turns to see. His back looks a lot like his front: mostly healed skin and scabs cut across pale skin, and there's still the ugly crawling caterpillar of stitches climbing his thigh. Walking back to the bed hurts. No, it's not the same way he's come to know pain in the last few—weeks? He's still not sure—but it doesn't feel right, either; he's not quite ready to walk on his own yet. It's exhausting, and he can feel the way the stitches and scars pull. Everything is wrong.

Slowly, Adam sits on the bed and pulls the clothes back on, grateful that he doesn't have to look at the ugly thing he's become. When he's dressed, he lays back down, trying not to cry but unable to sleep. Illogical thoughts pry into his brain. Who will want me when I look like this? he wonders, before he forcefully reminds himself, You don't need anyone! You're one of the Fae, self-sufficient and strong. The scars don't matter. Their opinions don't matter. Nothing matters.

He brushes at his eyes, but it's only habit, and he isn't crying, even if his fingers to come away wet and salty.

* * *

Adam dozes for the rest of the day, trying to ignore the aching of his body, the way the scabs and stitches pull if he's not careful when he moves. He feels sweaty and too-hot, knows he stinks of body odor and sickness, but he can't bring himself to care enough to get up and find Kris, or to call for him. He's thirsty, too, and he wants a drink, water or juice, but the walk to the kitchen seems daunting, and he barely made it to the mirror.

So he lays in the bed and moves in inches and tries to keep breathing, even when he twists wrong and his heart stops at the sudden sunburst of pain. He's jarred out of his haze when someone knocks on the door. “Adam? I'm coming in.”

“What—” he starts, but it's Kris, he knows it's Kris. He lets himself relax back into the bed, shudders when his stitches catch and pull on the damp sheets.

“You're awake,” Kris says, surprised. “How are you feeling?” Adam pushes himself up a little, trying to figure out how to answer, but Kris puts a hand in the middle of Adam's chest. “Don't try to get up yet. Just tell me what you need and I'll get it for you.”

“I—I'd like to use the bathroom, I guess,” Adam says softly. “And maybe some water?”

“I bought you some orange juice,” Kris says. “You need to get your blood sugar up, I bet.”

“Okay,” Adam agrees.

“I'll help you into the bathroom,” he says softly. “I think you'll be okay on your own from there. Come on. Slowly, now, I don't want you over doing it and straining something.”

“Of course not,” Adam snaps, bitterly. Why would Kris want to stay and take care of a wounded unicorn. He leans on Kris and stands slowly, lets Kris help him hobble down the hall to the bathroom. He leans on the sink until Kris disappears out the door, then turns on the taps and splashes water onto his face. He strips down again, splashes water over his body and uses the hand towel to dry himself. Eventually he hunts down a washcloth and wipes away the worst of the sweat and grime, then lets himself shiver as he stares at his reflection in the mirror, water drying cold on his skin.

After a while, Kris calls his name through the door, and Adam shouts back that he's almost finished, hurries to use the toilet and dress himself again in the musty pajamas. His head is pounding, he just wants to sleep. The door opens and Kris helps him back to the bed, gives him a glass of juice that Adam drinks without tasting, then pulls surprisingly clean sheets over him and tucks him into bed. “Sleep now,” Kris tells him. “We'll talk about what happens next in the morning.”

Adam obeys, and sleeps without dreams.

* * *

Kris wakes him up with breakfast the next morning, smell of eggs turning his stomach and making him wish for the strength to lunge for the bathroom, or even the waste basket. He doesn't vomit, though, just carefully avoids the eggs—especially looking at them—and nibbles at the toast. It's buttered, and there's jelly set out for him if he wants it, but Adam just takes small bites and stares mournfully at a snag in the bedspread.

“We need to leave soon,” Kris says finally, taking the plate of eggs and stabbing them with a fork. He puts a bite in his mouth and chews. “Do you know of anywhere else that's safe?”

“Los Angeles,” Adam says, throat tight. “I own a house. It's safe enough. No one bothers me there.”

“Okay. We can start as soon as you're ready,” Kris offers.

“Tomorrow.” Adam shrugs, feeling Kris' concerned gaze. “Might as well get it over with.”

“If you're sure,” Kris nods. “I'll make sure everything's ready tonight then.”

“I'm sure,” Adam snaps. His throat feels like it's about to close up, but he takes another bite of toast anyway and swallows it, even though his stomach feels like lead.

* * *

Adam wakes up before dawn the next morning, stiff and sore from holding himself still while he slept. His healing cuts and bites all prickle with the warning that as soon as he starts moving, he'll be in pain. He moves anyway, pushing through the sharp, jolting pain and rolling clumsily out of bed.

He lets himself whimper once when he's finally upright, lets himself shiver and wince and feel pitiful, feel useless and hurt and defeated. Then he straightens himself up and sucks in a breath. Kris knocks on the bedroom door a few seconds later and enters without waiting for Adam to reply.

“Oh. You're up early,” he says, sounding more than a little surprised. “Good. You ready to get going?”

“I'll signal the scrub team,” Adam responds. “You know how to get to LA from here?”

“Pretty sure you just follow the PCH,” Kris shrugs. “I'll help you out to the truck.”

Adam sets his mouth in a line, refusing to ask why a truck and where Kris got it, but accepting the help outside. He'll need all the help he can get if he's going to make it home in a single day.

Kris boosts Adam up into the cab, and Adam has to admit the step-pull up to get inside is much better than the slide-flop would have been if he'd been getting into a car. Adam breathes deep while Kris makes sure the back is loaded and shut, then murmurs the summon-spell for the cleaners. Kris hops into the driver's seat and Adam nods to signal he's ready to go, then closes his eyes as the engine rumbles to life and they start toward the highway.

* * *

They stop just outside LA for gas. Kris makes Adam get out of the truck and helps him into the bathroom. “I'll be back in seven minutes,” he promises as he leaves.

Adam waits until Kris is gone, then slumps against the dirty wall. The floor is covered in winter-grime from the tread of a thousand shoes, but Adam considers sliding down to it anyway. The ceramic, faux wood grain tile looks like a thousand other bathrooms in a thousand other rest stops and gas stations across the country. It's comforting, if a little ridiculous. He doesn't slide down the wall, though, just leans on the cold white tile and stares at the hand dryer until he realizes he's wasting precious time and takes the two limping steps forward into one of the stalls.

He's washing up, eyes closed, feeling the warm water flow over his hands, when the door opens.

“Adam, Adam,” a voice sighs, mocking. “Just look at yourself.”

“Simon,” Adam says, voice flat.

“How the mighty and formerly fabulous have fallen,” Simon smirks when Adam turns to look at him. “Are you actually wearing yoga pants?”

“Why are you here, Simon?” Adam asks.

“I am your father's second,” Simon snaps, lip curling over his teeth. “I'll be your brother's too, when he ascends.”

“You're here as a messenger, then,” Adam sighs. He doesn't bother asking how Simon found him. His father's seers had probably hooked a tracer spell on him when he'd done the summoning spell. “Deliver your message and leave me alone.”

“Normally I would caution you that your attitude determines the spirit in which the message is delivered, but this time, I'm going to enjoy making it unpleasant for you.” Simon smirks again, icy and cold. “Your chilly, defeated demeanor is so contrary to how we usually see you, it's absolutely delicious. And you know, this may be a toilet but there's a distinct Lupine odor in the air. Did you buy yourself a puppy, Adam? Or is there another reason you smell like dog?”

“Simon,” Adam growls. “Until I'm told otherwise, I am still Prince of the Winter Court, and you are still beneath me.”

“Consider yourself informed,” Simon snarls back. “You are hereby stripped of your titles, Prince of the Fae, Prince of the Winter Court, son of the house of Lambert, and are advised that you have been called to stand before the Tribunal, to defend yourself and your actions concerning the Ceremony of the Marked Path.” Simon grins, wide and dangerous. “Do try to bathe before you appear at Court.”

Adam steps away from the sink, refusing to limp. “You said what you are required to say,” he murmurs, voice soft but steely. “Let me pass.”

“No,” Simon denies. “I don't give way to chew-toys.”

Adam takes another step forward, then stops. “Let me by, Simon.” It's a direct challenge, and if Simon accepts it, there's no way Adam can win, not in his injured state. Adam is praying that his former status and whatever friends he may have left in the Winter Court will keep Simon from taking the challenge, though it's a futile hope.

Before Simon can reply, though, the door opens again, and Kris is there. “Ready to go?” he asks.

“Perhaps you could introduce me to your friend,” Simon asks, oozing charm.

“I don't think so,” Adam refuses, walking by Simon and out the door. Kris hurries to follow him, which is good because when he's certain the door is closed and Simon can no longer see, Adam's legs refuse to hold him up any longer. Kris catches him as he collapses and hauls Adam into his arms.

Adam can't be anything but grateful Kris is there to carry him across the parking lot, even as showing his weakness makes his face heat with embarrassment.. Kris puts Adam into the truck and Adam tries to pull himself back together, but the pieces are too far scattered. By the time Kris gets back in the truck, Adam's shaking helplessly, huddled up against the window, moments from sobbing.

Kris doesn't say anything, just starts the car and drives.

* * *

“Adam,” Kris calls, reaching over to touch his shoulder. Adam's barely moved since they got back into the truck, and he still barely twitches at Kris' touch. “Adam you need to tell me where I'm going.”

“Kris,” Adam mumbles, pushing himself up a little, then collapsing back down when it puts pressure on still-tender flesh. “Where are we?”

Kris tells him the street name, and Adam manages to give Kris directions to his house. Kris isn't surprised Adam's neighborhood is high-end, but he is surprised Adam's house is one of the smaller ones on the street. He parks the truck in the street and gets out, walks around the truck and opens Adam's door. “Keys?”

“Door's unlocked. I keep the house warded,” Adam explains.

“Okay. Think you can stand up for me?” Kris holds out a hand to help Adam up. Adam tries, but his torn-up leg refuses to hold his weight.

“Pushed too hard,” Adam mutters. “Damn Simon and his pride.”

“Yeah, Simon was the proud one,” Kris rolls his eyes, then grabs hold of Adam and manhandles him over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. “Wards gonna let me over the threshold?”

“Yes,” Adam hisses. “Hurry up! I don't want them to see—”

“Adam calm down,” Kris soothes. “We're almost there. And is it really such a disgrace to be seen with me?”

Adam doesn't answer, and Kris decides to let it go. He pushes open the door and walks inside, kicking the door closed behind him.

“Which way to your bedroom?” Kris asks. “I want to get you comfortable, then run out and do some shopping.”

“Down the hall, last door,” Adam says softly.

Kris carries him the entire way, then sets him carefully down on his plush feather bed. “Clean clothes in the dresser?” he asks, and moves that direction before Adam can answer. Adam makes a vague noise of assent, watching Kris open and close his drawers, pulling out a well-worn t-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. “Can you change on your own, or do you need my help?”

“I'm not sure,” Adam admits softly.

“Okay,” Kris nods. He helps Adam stand and slides the week-old pajama pants down his legs, careful of the tender places where Adam's scabs and scars haven't finished healing. Adam's heart is beating in his throat. Kris is so close and Adam just stands there, despite wanting to shove Kris away, and lets Kris help him balance while he steps into the new clothes.

Kris kneels up as he pulls the boxers up Adam's body, until he's eye level with Adam's groin. Adam can't tell if he's terrified of how Kris' teeth are so close to his femoral artery, of how one bite with those teeth could finish the job the Pack started in the forest, or excited for all the same reasons. He's so close to death, so close to the end of it all, and he can't help but feel death might somehow be easier—better—than fighting to stay alive.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Kris says gently, as if he can somehow read Adam's mind. “I'm not going to do that.”

“I—” Adam's voice breaks and he falls silent, feeling tears pool in the corners of his eyes.

“I would never hurt you, Adam, “Kris continues, voice calm and matter of fact. “You sing my moonsong. To hurt you would be hurting myself.”

“What are you going to do?” Adam asks, voice barely a whisper.

“I'm going to take care of you,” Kris promises. “I'm going to make sure you're all right.”

“Oh,” Adam says, and doesn't protest when Kris strips his shirt over his head and replaces it with the new one.


	3. Chapter 3

Kris is almost relieved to get away to the grocery store. It's not that he wants to be away from Adam, it's just that it's positively _peaceful_ being away from Adam's emotional turmoil. Kris hadn't realized he was picking up on so much of Adam's distress until he got a few miles away from it.

The thing is, despite the distance, and despite knowing that Adam is safe, all his instincts are telling him he shouldn't be here. He should be by Adam's side, helping him recover. It's the moonsong, Kris knows. Moonsong always calls you to your beloved, whether you want to be there or they want you to be. Silently, Kris promises himself he'll shop as fast as he can and then get back.

He's humming a little, still worried but easier now that he's got a more concrete plan for the day than just “go shopping,” when a magenta-haired girl whirls around from the dairy cases and stares intently at him. Kris isn't sure how to respond to that, so he nods pleasantly and tries to steer around her to the cheese and butter.

“You!” she hisses. “You know where he is.”

“Um,” Kris says, frowning.

“ _Adam_ ,” the girl whispers. “You know where Adam is.”

“Yeah,” Kris admits, stretching the word out. “Who're you?”

“Take me to him!” she screeches. Kris takes a step back, and she rolls her eyes. “Oh god, sorry. I'm not an axe murderer or whatever it is that's making you all green and freaked out. It's just—we've been looking everywhere for him, and I can _feel_ him on your aura. You're . . . you're connected somehow.”

“Moonsong,” Kris murmurs vaguely, then shakes himself. “Uh, you still haven't mentioned who you are?”

“Allison, of course,” she says, giving a little laugh. “And you're . . . Kris? I'm feeling that you're Kris. With a K.”

Kris takes a moment to consider. “You're, what? An empath?”

“Very good! Now come on, where _is_ he?” Allison demands.

“He's—he's at his house? I'm just out shopping, there was nothing left at all in his cupboards,” Kris explains.

“Tommy,” Allison says and rolls her eyes. “He probably figured Adam wasn't coming back and did a pantry raid. That guy eats more than the entire Fae nation combined.”

“Right,” Kris nods. “I'm gonna finish shopping now, okay?”

“Nope. We're combining carts and I'm coming home with you,” Allison announces. “Come on, Kris! I _need_ to see mi hermano!”

* * *

Adam wakes up when someone opens his door. “Kris?” he murmurs, sitting up a little.

“Hermano,” a voice says, soft and sad, and Adam shudders.

“Alli,” he whispers.

“God, what—what happened to you?” she wonders, sounding small and lost. “I—I can't read anything off you except _hurt_ and _pain_ and _sad_ and Kris' name, over and over.”

“Kris,” Adam says again. “He's—he's here, isn't he?”

“Yeah, he brought me here,” Allison nods. Adam thinks he detects a little puzzlement over the fact that Kris can get through his wards. “Do you want me to—I don't know. Make him leave, or kick his ass or something?”

“No,” Adam shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Alli, I don't know if I can actually explain what happened, but Kris wasn't part of it. He's a wolf, but he's not—he's not like the rest of the Pack. I don't know why. He saved me.”

“Moonsong,” Allison says, looking startled. “What's moonsong?”

Adam frowns, but Kris is in the doorway now, and Alli's sitting on his bed, and Adam can't remember when she moved there. Kris looks at Adam, concerned and caring and Adam can't meet his gaze, so he looks at the sheet spread over his chest and bites his lip.

“Moonsong is . . .” Kris pauses. “It's hard to explain. I don't know if I can make you understand it.”

“It's important,” Allison says, staring intently at Kris.

Kris closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. “It's like—it's everything. It's like finding the missing part of your soul. It's life and death and happiness and tragedy all wrapped up in one. It sings to me, tells me when he's hurt or sad or lonely and how I can fix it. If he were happy, it would tell me that, too, show me why. It can't be broken. It—well. To a wolf, it's everything.”

Allison's breath is shaky when she turns back to Adam. “Are you sure you'll be okay with him?”

Adam nods. “Yes.”

“Okay then,” Alli says, and gets up from the bed. She smiles as she says, “I have to go. I love you mi hermano. I'll let the others know you're okay when I see them,” then ducks out of the bedroom.

“Bye,” Adam mumbles as she leaves.

For a moment, Kris hesitates in the doorway, then walks out after Allison. Adam can hear them talking in the living room, whispering to each other about—something, he can't hear well enough to tell for sure. He hears his own name, though, and Alli says “Kris!” and then the door opens and closes and she's gone. Kris comes back into the bedroom a few seconds later.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

“Maybe some water,” Adam says.

“Okay.” Kris is almost out the door before Adam stops him.

“Kris!”

Kris turns.

“Thank you for bringing Alli to see me.”

“Of course,” Kris nods. “You keep resting, Adam. I'll bring your water in a minute.”

* * *

Kris leans against the counter and sips absently at the water in his hand. He can feel Adam, more than he's used to. Allison must have somehow boosted the moonsong, he muses. Adam feels so hopeless, so lost. Kris wants to hold onto him until Adam believes he'll never be alone again.

Moving slowly, he dumps the remains of the water into the sink and sets the glass aside, then gets down a new one for Adam. He pushes at the feelings of loneliness and doubt, slips underneath just far enough to feel the pain and the misery and the disgust that come with the wounds trailing up and down his body, especially the one on the back of his left thigh. Red hate flares in Kris' mind at the thought of the ugly scar and the limp he'll never be able to get rid of. Kris chokes down his flaring emotions and pulls back from the psychic link.

He takes a breath to compose himself, then fills Adam's glass with water. Adam. He needs to go to Adam. It takes a lot of control to keep himself from running for the bedroom, but he does, walks at a sedate pace, opens the door without throwing it into the wall, hands Adam the glass and sits on the bed. When Adam's finished drinking, he sets the glass aside and puts his hands carefully down on the bedspread.

Without thinking, Kris reaches over and takes his hand, linking their fingers and squeezing a little. Adam tenses, stares at him.

“What's the matter?” Kris asks, using his other hand to rub gently over Adam's knuckles.

“You—you're holding my hand,” Adam says, voice a little hoarse despite the water.

Kris frowns down at their hands. “Is that—is that a problem?” He can probably make himself stop touching, but it would be hard. He needs this just as much as the moonsong tells him Adam does. It's easy to listen to the moonsong, now that he's acknowledged its presence by using the bond, paying attention to it.

“No one holds hands with the Fae,” Adam mumbles. “It isn't done.”

“But do you want me to stop?” Kris asks.

Adam doesn't answer, and for now, Kris decides, that's answer enough. He sits and holds Adam's hand until Adam sinks down in the bed and closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep. When he thinks Adam's most of the way asleep, he leans over and presses a soft kiss to Adam's forehead, then lets go of Adam's hand and moves slowly and quietly out of the room.

* * *

He's shaking when Kris finally leaves the room. It hurts, in a strange, mostly mental way. Like a broken heart, Adam thinks, then shoves the thought away and swallows down the feeling. He can't do this, can't wait around for Kris to leave him. He needs to be alone, he needs something easy and without expectations. Kris will leave, he has to.

He feels scattered and lost when he shoves himself into a sitting position. He can hear Kris out in the front rooms. Adam's not sure what he's doing, but Kris thinks he's asleep, so he's got a little time. He fumbles his way out of bed and over to his dresser, takes the cordless phone from its base and dials the familiar number.

Tommy answers on the second ring, growly and gruff. “H'llo?”

“Sorry, you're probably still sleeping off last night,” Adam says, forcing himself to sound normal, cheerful and bright.

“Adam,” Tommy says, voice smoothing a little as he comes awake. “Alli said you were back.”

“I am,” Adam agrees, easy and unconcerned. “And I want to see you.”

“Yeah? You gonna yell at me for fucking with your food while you were gone?” Tommy asks, only half teasing.

“Not this time,” Adam promises. “I miss you, you know? And I miss . . . other things.” he hopes the emphasis is enough. He doesn't want to have to spell out what he wants from Tommy, because going through with his plan is going to be hard enough as it is. Fuck, when did he start planning?

Tommy's voice interrupts his avalanche of thoughts, though. “Oh, _other things_ , right. You just want my dick up your ass.”

“Well,” Adam hesitates. Luckily Tommy takes it as flirtation and not as the sudden reluctance it really is.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm just your booty call until you find something better to occupy your time,” Tommy snorts. “I get it. I'm used to it. I can be over Friday at two-thirty, if you want.”

“Perfect, baby,” Adam croons. They make it through the appropriate _looking forward to it_ s and a few final flirtations, and then Adam hangs up and stumbles back to his bed. He lays there and shakes for hours afterward, and prays that Kris doesn't feel his nerves through whatever bond they might have.

_Better to break the moonsong now than to wait for him to break you_ , Adam tells himself, and putting it into thought like that makes Adam feel a little sick. He rolls over onto his other side, riding out the fresh wave of twinging, pulling pain and settling down. He needs rest if he's going to meet with Tommy on Friday. Also, he needs to come up with a reason to get Kris out of the house. Kris can't be here when Tommy comes over, Tommy'll know Kris has a claim on him straight off. Kris isn't exactly subtle about those things.

He shuts his eyes and forces his mind clear of everything except the need to sleep.

* * *

Friday dawns with the shrill sound of Kris' cell phone. Adam's not sure who it is on the other end of the line, but apparently Kris has to leave for the afternoon.

“I'll be back around six, I promise,” he says softly, as he's taking his leave at noon. “Is there anything else I can get you before I go?”

“I'm fine, Kris,” Adam says, and forces a smile. Kris watches him warily. “I'm fine. Allison said she might stop by later.”

“If you're sure. I don't like leaving you this way,” Kris grumbles the last bit. Adam smiles again, a little less forced this time and tries to be reassuring. “If I'm not going to make it back by six, I'll call.”

“All right,” Adam nods.

“Can you get to the phone if I do?” Kris asks.

“It's not that far away,” Adam points out. “Besides, you'll keep calling until I either answer or you get back here.”

“That is true,” Kris grins. “Okay. I'll see you later tonight then.” He leans forward and kisses Adam's forehead, and Adam barely suppresses the shiver that runs down his spine at the touch. Kris is so good to him. It hurts to think about what's going to happen later on. “Be good,” he adds, as a last tease before he ducks out the door.

Adam waits until he hears the front door shut, then struggles up and out of bed. He has to look sexy, but he also has to accommodate the stitches and the wounds. He settles on a loose pair of linen pants he usually only wears for lounging around the house the morning after a change, but he can't find a shirt that doesn't either clash with the pants, scream that he's trying too hard, or look too casual. He decides to come back in a little while and starts to hobble to his bathroom.

An idea strikes him, and he turns back to the closet and digs through the belts and scarves lining the left side until he finds what he's looking for, an elegant ebony cane. There's a silver tip and a curved grip, also silver, and when he walks with the cane, his gait almost looks normal. He hurries—as much as he can anyway—into the bathroom and washes himself at the sink, scrubbing away a few days' worth of sweat. Kris helps him bathe now, but it's been since Wednesday morning, and—and Adam squelches out the thought of Kris. He can't do this if he thinks about Kris.

Determinedly, he sticks his head under the faucet and does his best to scrub. It's harder than he remembers, having to twist and stay in an uncomfortable position. And now it pulls at the scabs on his back, too. He hurries his way through washing his hair, and when he's finally done, he almost doesn't mind the cooling water running down his back. He grabs a towel, and mostly dries his hair that way before switching on the hair dryer for a few minutes. He reaches for his product when he's done, and realizes he hasn't used  _any_ sort of product for months. It feels so normal to spike and slick his hair, then to rinse his hands and pull out the liners and powders to do his eyes.

All too soon, there's a knock at his door. Tommy calls as he enters, “Hey, Adam! I'm gonna stick this beer in your fridge, then we'll get down to it.”

Adam can hear the innuendo dripping from the end of that sentence, and he grins. Same old Tommy. Maybe this won't be as hard as he thought. He finishes streaking sky-blue eyeshadow along his eyelids, then picks up the cane and walks into the kitchen. “Hey, Tommy-Joe,” he says, then laughs when Tommy turns and grins at the sight of Adam standing shirtless. “You're early.”

“I'm right on time, from the looks of things,” Tommy corrects. “Shirtless is always an excellent look on you.” He eyes Adam's chest, and Adam has enough pride in his body to like the way the few extra pounds have melted away with the stress and the pain, even as he loathes the scars that curl up out of his waistband. Tommy steps closer and presses a fingertip to one harsh pink scar. “This is new.”

“Well, I did get kinda chewed up,” Adam shrugs.

“Explains the tooth-marks,” Tommy nods.

Adam bites his tongue on an acidic retort. He doesn't need to be defensive, not around Tommy. So he smiles at Tommy, and Tommy laughs. “Dude, fine,” he grins. “Where you wanna get busy?”

“Oh god, the couch, please,” Adam groans. He can't even think about letting Tommy into his room. Kris is so at home there now, and it feels like a violation of something sacred and he's doing enough as it is. But Tommy's quirking an eyebrow at him so Adam shrugs, nonchalant, and explains, “I've been in that bed for the past week without a break. I want a change of scene.”

“Only a week?” Tommy grins.

“Shut up,” Adam jibes back. “There were other beds before that.”

“Mm-hm,” Tommy hums, and wraps his arms around Adam's waist. “Come on, babyboy, you gonna stand in the kitchen all day or let me ravish you somewhere with cushions?”

Tommy leads them out of the kitchen, and they're halfway to the living room when Tommy stops and frowns down at Adam's cane. “You really need that thing?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Adam admits.

“Fuck this,” Tommy snorts. Adam doesn't balk when they don't make for the living room, assuming Tommy's leading him to one of the spare bedrooms. But instead, Tommy takes him into his own bedroom, eases him down onto the mattress and slides up over him, straddling his thighs.

“What—but I thought—” Adam tries.

“You're limping, Adam. That couch is nice, but it's not that nice, not for _extended_ periods, and there's no room, besides. Unless you just wanted to go for blow jobs?” Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Come on, you know it's lots comfier in here.”

“I—I guess,” Adam admits slowly.

“Does it really bother you?” Tommy asks. “If you're that set on fucking on your living room furniture, then we can move. I just thought if you were still hurting . . .”

“This is fine, Tommy.” Adam smiles, trying not to choke on the lie. It's not fine, it's really, really not, but he can't say anything now without feeling like an ass, or making Tommy feel like one, and neither of those is conducive to his plan and oh, fuck. Adam's pulse pounds against his temples. Tommy smirks and settles himself down a little lower on Adam's thighs, pressing his mouth to Adam's neck.

Adam feels more caught than he'd felt even that night in the forest. Tommy kisses down his bare chest, sucking briefly at a nipple, biting gently where he knows it usually gets Adam going. Adam shudders beneath him, and tugs at his hair, pulls him up into a kiss in the hope that somehow, kissing will fight away the fear and the helplessness and that maybe Tommy won't notice that he isn't hard yet.

They kiss for long minutes, Adam's hand fisted tight in Tommy's hair, and when Tommy pulls away with a little frown Adam forces a smile, bright and reassuring, and Tommy frowns deeper. He grinds down, absently, and Adam shudders and gives a little cry, biting his lip to keep from screaming. He shouldn't have tried this, not with his wounds still healing, not without all the stitches out first. Tommy grinds again, taking his cry for one of pleasure, and Adam doesn't bite his lip in time, moans with the pain and the sudden wash of humiliation. He was a fool to think he could go through with this. But he's also too much of a coward to admit his mistake and ask Tommy to stop.

Tommy grinds again, and somehow Adam manages not to scream, then Tommy moves off his legs. Adam shakes with the relief, squeezes his eyes shut and fists his hands in the sheets as Tommy eases the linen pants down over his hips.

“Adam, fuck,” Tommy hisses, scrambling backward as Adam's thighs are revealed. “Shit, man, you're barely healed!”

“I'm fine,” Adam insists. “Keep—keep going, I'm all right.”

“You're not, you're—fuck, are you _bleeding_? Adam!”

Adam looks down at himself and swears softly, clenches his fists harder and closes his eyes and just breathes. “It's not as bad as it looks, I just haven't really had time to heal properly. It's fine— _I'm_ fine. Come on, Tommy, I need—” He forces himself to let go of the sheets with one hand and reach toward Tommy, wrap around his dick and jack it, and it works, after a minute. Tommy groans and arches into the touch, and moves back toward Adam. Adam spreads his legs, ignoring the tiny shivers of pain the movement causes. Tommy kneels carefully next to Adam, moves over one thigh to settle between Adam's legs, and Adam lets go and grabs for the sheets again.

Tommy sighs, somewhere between happy and confused and turned on, and presses fingers against Adam's hole, careful and slow.

“Yeah,” Adam grunts. Keeping still is taking all his effort. He doesn't want this, fuck, he _doesn't_ , but now he doesn't know how to stop. It's too late. He tenses and Tommy stops, drops his hands and moves away again, and Adam blurts out, “Please! Tommy, please, _please_ I need you to—I need your—I—”

“Adam, stop,” Tommy commands. “Stop.” He slides out from between Adam's legs, and Adam can't stop the wordless, helpless cry he makes, relief and disappointment warring for his attention. Something lifts from inside his chest, though, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Tommy,” he whispers.

“Fuck, Adam, I don't know what's going on with you, but this is fucked up,” Tommy snaps. “I don't know if you're fucking with me or what, but dude, it needs to stop. I don't appreciate being used in whatever game it is you're playing. And fuck, but I am not sticking my dick somewhere it's obviously not welcome.”

“What—Tommy, I always—”

“You're not even hard, Adam,” Tommy says, cold and angry.

Adam whines and claws his way into a half-sitting position. He twists toward the nightstand but the cordless phone isn't there, and Adam has no idea where it went. Wasn't Kris supposed to leave the phone where he could reach it? God,  _Kris_ . Now that everything's stopped, all Adam can concentrate on is Kris. “Fuck. Kris—I need Kris, Tommy, please, he's—I shouldn't have—he's not here and I need him—oh my god, Tommy, find—the phone, where's—shit.”

Tommy presses the phone into Adam's hand, and it must have been on the dresser, where he usually keeps it, fuck, why doesn't his brain work? He clumsily dials Kris' cell, and he can hear Kris answer, but he can't actually speak, he's crying too hard. Fuck, he's crying. When did he start crying? In his ear, Kris is saying “ _Hello? Adam? Is that you? Adam?_ ” and Adam wants to answer, wants to beg Kris to come home, but there isn't room for the words around the lump in his throat.

Eventually, Tommy takes the phone from him, and Adam can hear him talking to Kris, but he can't stop sobbing long enough to pick out words. He shifts until he's lying on his side, knees pulled up as close to his chest as he can manage, despite the pain and the unwelcome stretch against the still-healing bites—fuck, he has werewolf bites all over his body, and Tommy hates him now, probably, and Kris is going to hate him when he gets back and sees what Adam's done. He shoves his face into a pillow and tries to suck in air through the cotton pillow case and the synthetic down fill.

It could be seconds or hours, Adam's not sure, but when a calm, sure hand finally touches his shoulder, it feels like he's been crying for centuries. He moves where the hand coaxes him, rolling over and sitting up, letting himself be pulled into Kris' body. He tucks his face into the crook of Kris' shoulder, taking the offered comfort even though he knows it won't last very long. It's only a matter of time before Kris smells Tommy on him, before Kris packs up his things and leaves because of what Adam did.

“Shh,” Kris breathes into Adam's skin, into his ear. “I'm here now, Adam. It's okay now.”

Adam shudders and clings to Kris, unable to stop himself. Kris' arms wrap around his waist, stroking up and down his spine and soothing, and it helps. After a while, Adam manages to calm himself down enough that he can stop sobbing, but Kris doesn't pull away like Adam expected him to, just stays and lets Adam hold onto him, keeps rubbing Adam's back. Adam can feel himself drifting into sleep, lulled by Kris' steady movements and warm presence, his voice murmuring words Adam's too exhausted to hear.

“Kris,” he mumbles, and Kris shifts his hold on Adam, pets fingers through his hair and wipes away the traces of Adam's tears, his fingers coming away with grey-black smudges from Adam's eyeliner.

“Okay,” Kris soothes. “You're all right now. Come on, sit up for me.”

Adam sits, and Kris gets up from the bed. Instinctively, Adam wraps his arms around his chest, trying to protect himself as best he can. Kris frowns and moves to the dresser, searches through until he finds a soft, well-worn t-shirt, then a pair of flannel pajama pants. He brings them over and helps Adam put them on, his warm fingers brushing over the freshly tender wounds. Adam gasps a little at the touch, even though it doesn't really hurt, and Kris murmurs an apology before pulling the pajamas up over Adam's hips and pulling the t-shirt over Adam's head. When he's dressed again, Adam goes back to hugging himself. He stares very carefully at a snag on his bedspread, refusing to look at Kris, even when Kris' hands start pressing him down onto the mattress.

“Come on, Adam,” Kris urges. “On your side. Careful.” Adam goes, a little confused. “Comfortable?” Kris asks.

“I—what?” Adam frowns, and half sits up.

“Adam,” Kris says, voice heavy with the beginning of a scolding, but he looks at Adam, really looks at him, until Adam has to close his eyes and take deep breaths through his nose. It's not a look of anger, or disappointment. It's—it's something entirely opposite to those things, and Adam's afraid to look again and put a name to it, just in case it wasn't real.

He stays that way, eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe, even when he feels Kris' hand cup his face. He gasps when Kris' mouth presses carefully to his own, but Kris doesn’t press his advantage and take the kiss further, just pulls away, slow and careful, and presses another kiss to Adam's forehead.

“Lie down now,” Kris orders, and Adam obeys, opens his eyes and arranges himself on his side, his head on the crook of his elbow. Kris pulls the covers up over Adam's shoulders and strokes Adam's hair out of his face with soft fingers, smiling gently. “I promise, I will be just outside that door if you need anything. If you call, I will hear you. But I need to go make sure Tommy's okay now, all right?”

Adam nods, and Kris strokes his forehead again, then again. “It's all right,” Adam promises.

“I don't want to stop touching you,” Kris admits. “I don't want to let you get away again.”

“I didn't get away,” Adam whispers, throat tight.

Kris doesn't say anything to that, just keeps stroking Adam's head. Adam's so tired and everything hurts too much, so he lets himself be lulled into sleep again.


	4. Chapter 4

Tommy leaves around one in the morning. Kris is still in Adam's bedroom, unable to force himself to walk out the door to deal with Tommy like he should. He's not angry, he just needs to have a talk with the other Fae, figure out what happened. Neither of them had been terribly coherent when they'd spoken on the phone, Tommy half-drowned out by Adam's sobs, Kris flustered because Adam was hurting—obviously, painfully hurting and the moonsong wouldn't stop humming in his head that he needed to drop everything and go home.

Dawn starts to light up the room at around five, and Kris stretches, pops the stiffness out of his joints and walks out to the kitchen to make coffee. The scent of Tommy is stronger here, and before he really knows what's happening, he's crouched and scent-tracking, out of the house and down the block without a thought.

On some level, Kris knows what's happening. His wolf—which usually only makes its presence known around the full moon—is insisting that Tommy is a threat, a danger to Kris and Adam both. His wolf thinks they need to take care of that threat. Kris himself is not entirely in opposition to this. He's not the root source, but Tommy is a tangible link to Adam's past, and Kris wants to demand answers from Tommy, to know why last night happened. To know why Tommy assumed everything was normal when Adam was in that much pain.

He comes to a halt half an hour later outside what must be Tommy's door. It's not quite an apartment building, more of a condo, and Kris tries the doorknob. It opens.

Kris figures Tommy's probably got his place warded, but to his surprise, Kris walks right in without triggering any alarms, magical or otherwise. Tommy is flaked out on the couch, watching reruns of _MASH_ on some cable station. He looks over when Kris comes in.

“Thought you might be by,” he says with a grin, and something inside Kris snaps.

“He's _mine_ ,” Kris snarls, and Tommy's pinned to the stucco wall, Kris' hands at his throat and his stomach, threatening the vulnerable areas, and Tommy's stricken, terrified look just makes Kris' snarl smooth out into a grin. “You don't touch him again. You don't come near us. Do you know what you almost did to him?”

“I—I'm sorry—didn't know—fuck, can't _breathe_ —” Tommy rasps out.

Kris ignores Tommy's plea and presses him harder into the wall. Tommy makes a choking noise, and Kris growls low and fierce, then tosses Tommy onto the floor in front of the couch with ease. Tommy's surprised curse is cut off in the middle, his head hitting the floor with a loud crack.

He wants to howl his pleasure to the moon, sing in praise of his handiwork, but he also wants to throw up. Kris thinks suddenly of two alphas he'd once seen fight for dominance, the sick snap of the weaker alpha's spine as he was thrown against a tree. Stumbling, he kneels by Tommy and presses fingers to his neck. There's a flutter at the pulse point, and Kris lets out his breath. Not dead, then.

He wants to stay, to make sure Tommy wakes up, that he's all right, but he knows that staying is going to be far too tempting. He leaves Tommy on the living room floor and starts the walk back to Adam's.

* * *

When Adam wakes up, Kris is gone. It's the most frightening thing that's ever happened to him, and that's saying something considering the past few months. Adam runs a shaky hand through his hair. He doesn't know what to do. Did Kris just step out for something? Did he get called away? Should Adam wait for him to come home, or is he gone, like Adam predicted?

The last thought settles over Adam like a heavy weight, and he closes his eyes again, wondering how he knows with such certainty that Kris isn't in the house. He loses time, maybe drifts back to sleep, a little, and wakes up with the click of the bedroom door opening.

He sits up, and watches as Kris stumbles through the bedroom door, holding his hands out in front of him, looking dead tired and terrified. Adam's never seen Kris look terrified.

“You need to call Allison,” he says. “I did something bad.”

“What—Kris what—you're shaking,” Adam says. He stares at Kris' hands, the way they tremble and clench, and at how Kris looks at them like he's never seen them before. “Kris what did you do?”

“I scented Tommy, tracked him,” Kris explains. “I went to his house and I didn't mean to—I was just going to ask what happened last night. It wasn't—I thought I could handle it.”

“Oh shit,” Adam whispers. “Fuck. Kris, I—” but he can't ask Kris to get him the phone, so he stands up, shaky and sore, and walks to his dresser, picks up the cordless and dials Allison.

* * *

Tommy's awake by the time Allison gets there, which is a relief. Kris still feels sick when he thinks about what he did, though, and as soon as Adam nods at him, face tight, Kris slips out of the room. He trips down the hall to the guest room he's been staying in, then past it to the bathroom. He drops to his knees in front of the toilet, but he doesn't throw up, despite the nearly overwhelming nausea.

He kneels there for what seems like hours, waiting for his stomach to decide if it's going to empty itself, his knees aching the longer he stays in place. Finally he manages to get himself under control and stands back up, leans on the sink and splashes water over his face until his skin feels numb. He almost killed someone this morning. Not because they'd done anything wrong, but because they'd touched Adam— _hurt_ Adam—and that was unacceptable. The wolf hadn't cared that it was unintentional, and to be honest, neither had Kris. He'd lost control. The realization that he would kill for Adam without a second thought, or without any thought at all, scares him more than anything else ever has.

The sick feeling doesn't go away all afternoon, and Kris avoids Adam, can't bear to look him in the eye with the knowledge that he could have killed one of Adam's best friends shining unbearably bright from the back of his mind.

It's a struggle to bring Adam his dinner, as usual, but Kris does it because he knows ignoring Adam will hurt him more than intruding will, and besides which, neither of them has eaten all day. Kris still isn't hungry, too almost-nauseous to think about food except in an extremely detached way. He brings Adam the baked chicken and vegetables leftover from a few nights before, and watches to make sure Adam eats at least a few bites, then leaves Adam to himself in the bedroom. Once he's cleaned up the kitchen a little, he goes into the living room and sits on the couch, staring at the silent TV set until the clock reads ten, then going to the guest bedroom and climbing into bed. The moonsong sings to him quietly, but Kris ignores it, unwilling to face Adam again if he doesn't have to. Instead he pulls the covers over his head and goes to sleep.

He drifts off with the nagging feeling that he's forgetting something, but it isn't until he wakes up in the morning that he realizes he forgot to say goodnight to Adam.

* * *

Adam wakes up to find an official summons on his nightstand. He doesn't need to open it to know what it says, but he picks it up anyway, fingers clumsy on the thin paper, and breaks the seal. It's from his father, co-signed by Simon, summoning him to the Tribunal at noon that day. He sets the paper aside and it fades out, magicked to disappear once it's been read. Adam shivers and looks down at his body, his legs. He's not ready to spend more than an hour or two at a time on them, but going to the Tribunal will require half the day, if not longer.

He manages to unearth an eyeliner pencil from the drawer in his nightstand, and lines his eyes half from memory before he remembers there's a mirror in there too. The rest of getting ready isn't so easy. He undresses before he even stands up, but he needs to appear powerful and in-control, which means a suit, and he's not sure he's going to be capable of balancing and pulling on pants that don't have a drawstring. He's going to need the cane again, he realizes, probably before he even leaves his bedroom. He feels dizzy and helpless, and almost gives in and curls back under the covers until he remembers he doesn't have a choice, and would rather not show up at the Tribunal naked.

It's a struggle, and he ends up leaning on his closet door for twenty minutes, shirt and jacket on over his briefs. He loathes the sight of himself in the mirror, but it's that ugly feeling that motivates him to finally get the damn pants on. It's not until he's walking out of his bedroom that he realizes there's no way he's going to be able to bend enough to get into the shoes he's chosen. He can't wear slip-ons, either, not with a formal suit.

When Kris walks into the living room, sleep-bleary and looking a little hung-over, it's almost a relief. “Wh—Adam what's—?” he stutters. “You're leaving?”

“I have to go. I've been called to the Tribunal,” Adam explains, words clipped and jaw tight. He feels strangely close to tears.

“You're dressed. It's like—”

“It's eleven-thirty. I've only got a half an hour to get there.”

“You need shoes,” Kris mumbles, and stumbles back down the hall.

Adam takes a deep breath. Maybe he can call Allison and have her bring him some before she goes to check on Tommy this afternoon. Before he can take a step toward the phone, Kris comes back, holding a pair of socks and Adam's boots. They're not the ones he'd been planning to wear, but they're also black, and at this point, if Kris is going to put shoes on him, he's not going to complain that these are the wrong ones. They're better broken in than his first choice, too, which means they'll be comfortable longer.

Kris kneels in front of him and helps him get his shoes on, then stands and awkwardly offers a hand up. Adam ignores it in favor of leaning on his cane.

“I can give you a ride, if you need it,” Kris offers, looking a little awkward. Adam shakes his head.

“I've been summoned. They'll call me to my appearance with magic, I don't need a ride,” he explains. He twists his fingers together, stomach dropping a little at the thought of the trial. He's been putting it out of his head all day, the Tribunal, the sentencing, and worst, the empty house he's going to come home to. He breathes, long and slow, and adds, “Don't worry, I'll be gone long enough you can pack up and leave without interruption. I've always hated goodbyes anyway.”

Kris blinks at him, frowning, and Adam moves away from Kris. He clutches the cane tight in one hand, thinking of how nice it will be to have an empty house again. He feels the first pull of magic just as Kris says, “Adam, do you think I'm going to run away while you're—”

The world fades to blue-white, then snaps back into focus, and Adam has to grit his teeth and lean all his weight on the cane to keep his balance. He looks up, and sneers. His father, his brother, and Simon are all sitting in carved birch thrones on a raised dais, looking regal and official despite the jeans and t-shirt Simon sports, or the power ties Neil's grown so fond of.

“I have come at the behest of the Council of Elders,” Adam says, forcing as much arrogance and carelessness into the words as he can manage. “I am prepared to stand.”

Simon rises, not bothering to hide his contempt for Adam. “Then let the Tribunal come to order.”

* * *

Kris is fumbling for his cell the instant Adam starts fading out. He has to scroll through his contacts twice before he finds Allison's name, and breathes a little prayer of relief that he had the good sense to get her number. He hits the call button and starts heading for his bedroom, needing car keys and pants that aren't flannel.

“Kris? What the hell, man?”

“Allison, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I need to know where the Tribunal meets,” Kris explains, searching frantically for his wallet. It's not in his jeans, where it should be. Fuck.

“Um. I don't know that I want to tell you that right now,” Allison says, sounding stubborn and maybe a little surly.

“I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now, but it's important,” Kris tries. Shit, maybe he dropped his wallet in his rush to get home? Or it's at Tommy's house, lost somewhere during the—his—attack?

“Tommy's pretty fucked up thanks to you, man. I thought he might actually have to go to the hospital,” Allison reminds him. “Like, that's serious okay? Fae never have to go to hospitals. Adam didn't have to go to a hospital, right?” She pauses for breath and Kris grits his teeth. She wasn't there, she doesn't know—fuck. Fuck it. Fuck it all, he doesn't even care anymore. Allison's saying something about not wanting to unleash an angry wolf on an entire building full of Fae, and Kris just doesn't have the time or the patience to talk her down.

“Tell me, don't tell me—I don't care!” he growls. “But I _will_ find him, do you understand? I can already feel which direction to go, the moonsong will call me to him, but if I don't get the _address,_ it's going to take me longer, and the longer I take, the more chance there is his fucking stitches will pop, or he'll over-exert himself again, or something _else_ will happen to him. God damn it, Allison, he shouldn't even be alive right now! Do you understand? Do you get that? You don't know how bad it was, how bad _he_ was. There was so much blood, and everything was mangled and—and he might _die_ , okay? He can't take this alone, he won't be able to keep physically strong if he has to be mentally strong too.”

Allison makes a soft, scoffing sound into the phone, but it sounds more uncertain than it sounds sure. “Adam's the strongest person I know,” she starts.

“He is _dying_ , Allison. He did it on purpose, can't you see? He stepped off the path on _purpose_ , because he just couldn't face a life that was so empty and meaningless anymore,” Kris interrupts. He takes a deep breath, opens his mind and lets the moonsong sing to him. “He's hurt and he's alone and he's scared, and that cane won't keep him upright for long, not if Simon's there. He's so proud, and he's so broken and—and he needs me. Allison, he needs me. I have to—”

“Kris,” Allison cuts in.

“What?”

“The Tribunal meets in the Pasadena Armory.”

“Thank you,” he breathes into the phone. She hangs up without another word, and Kris hurries out of the bedroom, slipping into his untied Converse and running to the truck. His wallet's on the seat. He sticks it back in his pocket and starts the engine.

* * *

Simon's asking him questions. Again. It seems like all Simon ever does is demand to know what Adam was thinking when he stepped off the Marked Path, in various ways and with various intonations. He's tried bored, angry, amused, and is cycling through frustrated and demanding at the moment. Neil and Eber have been unsurprisingly quiet. Why do the dirty work when Simon's perfectly happy to carry out the distasteful job for them. Adam briefly wonders if that's why Simon was chosen as second, or if it's a side effect of serving the same family for so long. Which, now that he thinks of it, it's Adam's family. Shouldn't Simon be serving and trying to please him as well?

“Tell us!” Simon demands, voice like thunder. “Tell us why you did it! What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking? Did your mind just empty of everything except your stupid clothes and the proper way to do your hair and you just _forgot_ you were supposed to be carrying out a ceremonial rite of welcome? Our relations with the Sidhe have been tenuous at best since you broke off your engagement to their crown prince, or did you forget that, too?”

“I didn't forget,” Adam says, and he's just so tired. He wants to sit down, to slump to the floor, undignified and painful. He can't take standing up much longer. His legs are shaking with the strain of standing, and he's uncomfortably aware of all the places where he hasn't healed yet. He leans a little harder on the cane and tries to ignore the way even that movement pulls and twinges, sending little zings of pain skittering across the constant ache.

“Then what?” Simon hisses.

“I didn't forget,” Adam repeats, louder, so the whole room can hear. His heart is suddenly in his throat, beating fast—almost as fast as the night in question, when he stepped off the path and met Kris and almost died. “I—I stepped from the Path on purpose.” His voice sounds hoarse, even to his own ears.

The entire room explodes into whispers and gossip, older men and women gasping in horror, younger ones curling their mouths in disgust. His father just watches, impassive, and says nothing. Neil looks vaguely disgusted. Adam can feel the ache creeping up his back, from his thigh to his hips and along his vertebra. He takes a shaky breath and repeats himself.

“I did it on purpose. I left the path on purpose.”

“Why?” Simon demands. He is neither disgusted nor horrified, just curious, and confident in the knowledge he'll get the answers he wants.

“For the obvious reason,” Adam admits. “I didn't want to live any longer.” He frowns. “It's not important why, really. The fact of it is, I did it. I tried to die. And instead I was maimed and left to bleed, then called before this Council to testify to my mistakes. So do your what you like to me. I guarantee I've already had worse.”

* * *

Kris lunges forward through the doors to the Tribunal. It looks like the room they normally use to hold yoga classes, but it's been enchanted to be larger and look more like a throne room than a gymnasium. Adam's voice rings out, asking the Tribunal—no, daring them—to hurt him, and Kris cries out, “No!” before he can even think.

He hears the whispers of _wolf_ and _Pack-were_ as he pushes through the crowd, sees Adam stiffen at his voice, but it doesn't matter, he needs to be closer and he can just explain—

“Who dares to interrupt this council of the good and just?” the man in the center of the dais asks, and Kris sees Adam reorient toward him, away from the shorter man Kris recognizes from the gas station bathroom and his earlier use of moonsong. _Simon_ , he thinks.

“I do,” Kris calls, shoving forward the last few feet. “You call this a council for the good and just? Well what's good and just about one of your own feeling so alone that baiting a wolf-pack seems a better idea than keeping to the Marked Path and staying safe?”

“My brother was never alone,” the one to the left says, cocking his head curiously. “He had us. His family.”

Kris takes a moment to realize that Adam is the Prince—or a prince, anyway—before he shakes his head. “He didn't,” he insists. “But now he does have family. He has me. And no matter what you do to him, no matter what happens, he always will have me.” Kris turns toward Adam, then. Adam is biting his lip and clutching his cane with white knuckles. “I promise,” he says, for Adam alone, though the rest of the room hears as well, “I will not abandon you. I will not ignore you. You have a place in my life and in my pack as long as you are alive. All you have to do is take it.”

“Kris,” Adam whispers, and Kris sees the slightly watery eyes and hears the hitch in his voice and knows that if Adam were anyone else, anyone with less strength, he'd be crying. Kris nods in acknowledgment of Adam's answer, then turns toward the Tribunal.

“I've said all I care to say,” he announces. “If you still need to sentence him, hurry up. I'd like to get home before nightfall.”

Simon and the man in the center—Kris assumes he must be Adam's father, and the leader of the Fae, King Eber—confer for a moment, before Simon nods and steps to the side. King Eber rises.

“Adam, son of the house of Lambert, Prince of the Fae, Chosen of the People and Favorite of your Mother, you are hereby officially and in the eyes of all the Fae here and spread abroad, stripped of your titles and honorifics. Your heritage, magical ability, and fairy blood we cannot take from you, but we do hereby renounce you as kin. From henceforth, you are cast out and unknown in the Courts. Be it so,” he announces, voice solemn and loud.

“Be it so,” the rest of the room echoes.

“Be it so,” Simon says, a little behind the rest, savoring.

“Do you abide?” the King asks.

Adam pulls himself up and looks his father in the eye. “I abide,” he agrees, then turns to Kris and murmurs low, “I'm going to fall if I try to move.”

“As for the wolf,” King Eber pauses to curl his lip at Kris in distaste, “his presence here will go unpenalized, since he has, apparently, saved the life of my eldest son. May he never set foot in this Court's presence again. Be it so.” The room repeats the sentiment, and the King asks, “Do you abide?”

“I abide,” Kris answers, glancing over at Adam and sidling a little closer.

“This Tribunal is concluded. The Court is dismissed, the Summoned is dismissed. The . . . _wolf_ is dismissed. Be it so,” King Eber says, and the room echoes him again. Adam stays silent, his lips gone a little white.

Kris steps forward and grabs Adam's elbow as he starts to waver. Adam looks down at him, something unreadable in his eyes, and Kris listens to the faint whisper of the moonsong when it tells him Adam is adoring, unsure, and hopeful, all at once.

“I can't join the Pack, Kris,” Adam murmurs, his weight shifting to lean on Kris.

“I wouldn't ask that of you,” Kris assures him, keeping his voice low. “Besides, that isn't what I meant. I intend to break off from the Pack and start my own.”

“Kris,” Adam breathes, but he doesn't say anything else, just reaches out, dropping his cane, and clutches at Kris' arm. “ _Kris_ ,” he hisses, and Kris feels him starting to collapse.

Kris quickly shifts, so Adam's arm is around his shoulders and one of Kris' arms wraps around Adam's waist. Adam leans on him, eyes closed in pain or humiliation, Kris can't tell, but he supports Adam's weight and slowly walks him out the door.

* * *

Adam stands quietly and lets Kris undress him when they get back. He moves when Kris prompts him, but he can't summon up the energy to take the initiative and actually be helpful. Kris doesn't seem to mind, either way. Once he's dressed, he lets himself be moved onto the bed, curling up on his left side.

Kris settles onto the bed behind him, sitting on the side. Adam holds his breath when Kris reaches out a hand, relaxing again when Kris strokes his hair away from his forehead. After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat softly and says, tone flat and even, “I thought you were leaving.”

It takes Kris a while to respond, and for a few moments, Adam is sure that Kris is about to walk out of the bedroom, out of the house, away from Adam. “I'm not leaving you,” Kris answers, finally. “Not unless you tell me to.”

Adam's breath catches in his throat at that, and he wants to beg Kris to stay, to never leave, wants to tell him that if he doesn't leave on his own, Adam will never send him away. He wants to clutch at Kris' hand and keep him there by force if he has to. He doesn't do any of those things, though, just lies quietly and waits.

“I can understand, though,” Kris continues, “if you want me to leave. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry for what the Pack did to you, and for what I did to Tommy. I was jealous and angry and I wanted to protect you. I went about it the wrong way, though. Regardless of that, I hope you'll let me stay.”

There's a moment when all Adam can hear is the rushing of his own heartbeat. “Yes,” he whispers, over the roaring in his ears. “I'd like that.” Kris' hand is resting on Adam's shoulder, waiting to go back to its petting at a moment's notice, but Adam doesn't want that. He reaches up and pulls Kris' hand away, holds it in both of his own. He squeezes, gently, then laces his fingers together.

Kris smiles at him and lets Adam hold his hand as he drifts toward sleep. Adam's almost there when a thought occurs to him.

“Kris,” he says, pushing up as far as he can to look Kris in the face.

“What is it?” Kris asks, concern creasing his forehead.

“Kris,” Adam repeats. He opens his mouth, but now he can't find the words. “I—” He stops, flustered, and sinks back onto the bed. Adam opens his mouth again, but there still aren't words. He makes a soft, frustrated noise. “I can't,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

Kris smiles and flexes his fingers in Adam's grasp. He runs his thumb carefully over the back of Adam's hand, then leans over to press his lips to Adam's cheek and whispers,“You're welcome.”  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moonpath [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/447813) by [paraka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraka/pseuds/paraka)




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